


The Adventure Of The District Messenger

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [20]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cover Up, F/M, Forgery, Framing Story, M/M, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, philately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 08:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15020942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: District messenger Mr. Ptolemy Seleuchus Antiochus Wilson has several problems. Fortunately Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes has several solutions.





	The Adventure Of The District Messenger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JayyBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayyBee/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

_(With the advent of the dreaded telephone, the post of district messenger is yet another which is fading into history. It was - and still is, in remoter parts of the Empire - a local manager in charge of dispatching telegrams through a network of small boys)._

I remember from talking with Watson one time that this was one of my brother Sherlock's cases that he most regretted not being able to release to the Nation. Not so much for its importance but, as he so rightly said to me, its complete and utter unimportance. Because this saw one of the best facets of my youngest brother's character, in that he helped people not because of any social or financial rewards but because their case interested him in some way. And in this particular instance, because the gentleman involved had been treated by Watson himself recently, which was how the case came to Sherlock's attention.

The intelligent reader will wonder just why this case was indeed not included in the original Sherlock canon. The reason, an unusual one, was that one of the step-brothers of the gentleman involved was later part of a second unpublished (and much more famous) case that involved herbage and dairy products, and Sherlock felt that to reveal the first case might lead to the unscrupulous London journalists uncovering the second. Fortunately as with nearly all the unpublished cases that he undertook with my brother the good doctor wrote up a preliminary draft of the original adventure, so here it is.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

It was but one week until I was due to depart England for the United States, where I fully intended to make the lovely Miss Constance Adams my wife. In that short time period there occurred one of the more curious cases that Sherlock ever solved. It featured one of the humblest of clients, even though he was blest (if that was the right word) with far from the humblest of names. Quite what the parents of Mr. Ptolemy Seleucus Antiochus Wilson had been thinking when they had named him, only they and the Good Lord knew! It might be imagined that with a name like that, they had hoped he might be destined for a career as an archivist or historian, but although he did indeed develop an interest in those areas he instead ended up as the district messenger covering the Baker Street area. And it was his misadventure, which came about through no fault of his own, which formed this case.

The week before this happened Cartwright, one of the boys Wilson used for his messages, had told us that his boss was 'looking right peaky'. I knew a little of the man's circumstances – his mother and stepfather had both died recently, leaving him and his good lady wife to raise not only their own young family but also two teenage step-brothers – so I had treated him free of charge despite his protestations. He had seemed fully recovered and I had thought little more of it, until Cartwright had shocked us this very morning by telling us that the fellow had been dismissed. The idea that a man like Wilson could have done anything to warrant such a sanction had seemed utter folly to us both, and Sherlock had invited him round to discuss the matter.

“I honestly have no idea, sirs”, the man said, taking off his glasses and polishing them yet again. He was in fact not quite thirty years of age, but his permanently worried expression made him look older. “Yesterday it was; I came in as normal and Mr. Greene the area manager had come round. He gave me my cards and told me to hop it.”

Holmes frowned.

“And he did not even offer the courtesy of an explanation?” he asked. The man shook his head.

“No reason, sir”, he said mournfully. “He had two men with him and they escorted me off the premises. Shameful it was, sir.”

I saw Holmes' face darken and knew that someone, somewhere, was about to face justice for the actions against poor Wilson. Good.

“Let us consider matters, then”, Holmes said evenly. “First, when did this personage called Mr. Greene previously befoul your office with his presence?”

“Late last Thursday, sir”, Wilson said. “He runs four offices, so we rarely see – saw him.”

“That is good”, Holmes smiled. “Obviously had he wished to dismiss you on that day he would have done so then. We may therefore make the reasonable assumption that you committed some act, however unknowing and undeserving of censure, between his departure on that day and his return the following Monday. You work Fridays and Saturdays I know, so I need to know what you did on those days. In particular, anything that was out of the ordinary.”

“Mostly I just stay in the office, sir, and monitor the boys”, Wilson said. “Some of them are right scallywags if you don't keep them in order, but they're good at heart, really. I went out twice – no, I tell a lie, three times – and my deputy Mr. Groves covered for me each time.”

“What is he like, this Mr. Groves?” Holmes asked. The messenger reddened.

“We do not always get on”, he admitted. “He expected to be made manager three years back when old Mr. Foxworth retired and he was not best pleased when they chose me instead. He said I was too young; he is just past fifty you see.”

“Hmm”, Holmes said. “I need details of the three times you went out, Wilson.”

The man nodded.

“The first one was lunchtime on Friday”, he said. “I takes my lunch as and when I can get it, sir, and there was an urgent message for a Mrs. Weybridge in Melcombe Street. I didn't read it, of course.”

“Of course not”, Holmes agreed. “Were there any problems?”

The messenger shook his head.

“A right snooty footman took the message up to the lady, and came back after about five minutes”, he said. “There was no reply. He gave me the bare minimum tip and turned his back on me. Some people – and their servants – are like that these days. The missus says that it's like dogs; a bad owner makes a bad servant.”

“That is very true”, Holmes agreed. “What next?” 

“That afternoon, about three it was, I had to go out and see a Mr. Sellers in Chiltern Street”, he said, wrinkling his nose. “One of those gentlemen who must have taken a bath in that eau de cologne; I felt ill just standing hear him. He was moaning about one of the boys cutting across his flower-beds to deliver a message, though when he went and showed me I didn't see any footprints.”

I saw Holmes' eyes narrow and I could see the implication. Mr. Wilson had been out of the office for something other than a delivery, leaving Mr. Groves in charge. Had the jealous deputy done something in his absence?

“The third time was Saturday morning, sirs”, Wilson continued. “I had a telegram for a factory in Chagford Street. We'd had a rush on and were a couple of boys short – all this whooping-cough, you know - so I decided to take it myself 'specially as it was marked 'urgent'.”

“What sort of factory?” Holmes asked. 

“Don't rightly know, sirs”, Wilson admitted. “I entered the main door of the place and some fellow snatched the message off me, read it, said 'no reply' and all but threw me out the bloody door with no tip. Uh, begging your pardon, sirs.”

He blushed at the mild profanity. 

“I have one final question”, Holmes said. “If you had a straight choice, would you prefer to go back to your old job or would you seek work elsewhere?”

“Definitely elsewhere, sirs”, Wilson said fervently. “But without a reference, I doubt I'll get much. Unless there's some unfussy collector of old books looking for a paid assistant, and they don't exactly grow on trees!”

“Well, we shall see if such a job suddenly sprouts from the London pavements”, Holmes said. “Stranger things have happened in my experience. You and your good lady wife live in Playfair Street, over Marylebone way?”

“Yes, sir. This'll be a worry for her, what with her expecting and the boys to take care of.”

“I promise that I shall be in contact once I have news”, Holmes smiled.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“Why would they sack him without a reason?” I wondered, after the man had left. Holmes had insisted on giving him an envelope with several notes in it 'to tide things over', which I had thought generous of him.

“I sense that his unwelcoming factory folk have the answer”, Holmes said, rising and crossing to the writing-desk. “I have two telegrams to write, so if you do not mind waiting we shall have our delayed walk later and send them then.”

“You think that the factory is the answer?” I asked. “Or perhaps the jealous deputy?”

“I would like a sample of what that factory produces”, Holmes said, “as I think that that will provide the answer to that question. Fortunately I have several contacts amongst the criminal underclass, and I am sure that one of them will be able to obtain what I need.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I stared in surprise at the item that had come that morning for Holmes, which Mrs. Hudson had said had been left by 'a rather peculiar gentleman' (and bearing in mind what she had to put up with, that had to have meant extremely peculiar!). I was not sure what I had been expecting that factory to be producing, but this was not it.

“A letter?” I asked dubiously.

“A letter worth several hundred, if not several thousand pounds”, he said.

I stared at it. Apart from obviously being some decades old from the date on the postmark, I did not see how a letter that had been sent to a Mr. C. Q. Adams Esquire at Cherry-Tree Cottage, Wellow in the county of Somersetshire was the least bit valuable. All it contained was a blank piece of card for Heaven's sake!

“It is fortunate that one of my minor cases of late involved philately”, Holmes said. “The key is the stamp, a Penny Black.”

“But they must have made millions of them”, I objected.

“Some way in excess of sixty-eight million”, he said. “Were it for that alone then it would be but a few shillings at best. But the postmark across the stamp makes the difference.”

“'June 3rd, 1840'”, I read. “So?”

He smiled knowingly. 

“The stamps were not meant to go on sale until June the _sixth_ ”, he explained. “Hence any stamp that was marked before that date has great value.”

“But the factory cannot have been making these”, I said.

He just looked at me.

“Consider for a moment”, he said. “Only a very tiny number of pre-dated stamps, but the demand for them is astronomical. Suppose that someone claimed to have acquired one of these letters. They auction it off quite legally, then everyone who applied is told that they are the successful bidder and that once they send in their cheque a letter will be sent to them. The fraudsters would then be able to flee the country with a huge amount of money before the hue and cry could be raised for their capture.”

I frowned.

“But this does not explain why poor Wilson was sacked”, I said.

“I am rather afraid that it does”, Holmes said. “And worse, the implications thereof. Fortunately I am expecting a visitor here this afternoon who will be able to clear the whole matter up even though he will not want to. And even better, my government contact has moved with unusual speed – clearly that service I did for that high-ranking minister three months back was remembered - and I have been informed that a vacancy will be arising in the historical documents section at the Victoria and Albert Museum, some two months hence. The job is Wilson's for the asking.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Before our visitor arrived Holmes gave me a somewhat strange set of instructions, although of course I agreed to follow them. It was about half-past two when we heard a heavy tread on the stairs outside, and then Mrs. Hudson entered to announce 'Mr. Edgar Norwich'. The man was clearly of noble blood if only because of the way he looked down his nose at both of us.

“You requested to see me, Mr. Holmes?” he asked, looking pityingly around our room. I silently hoped that this was one man heading for a fall as I disliked him already.

“I did”, Holmes said. “You do not have to stay if you do not want to, sir, but I can guarantee that if you leave, you will not like the events that will occur during the rest of today. Or the rest of this week.”

The man looked uncertainly at him, but sat down on the couch (presumably his ego was too large for the fireside chair).

“I think it only fair to tell you”, Holmes began, “that I have been engaged by a client to investigate a case of a man who was unfairly dismissed from the General Post Office. An organization for which you, under your noble cousin, are Deputy Postmaster General.”

“If he was as you say unfairly dismissed”, our visitor sniffed, “then he can take it up with the courts.”

“As I am sure you are well aware, he has not the money”, Holmes smiled. “Unfortunately for you and _your_ continued employment, he has something rather better. Me.”

Our guest just looked disdainfully at him.

“It was poor Mr. Ptolemy Wilson's grave misfortune”, Holmes went on, “to deliver the wrong message, to the wrong place, at the wrong time. Although he had no way of knowing it – and he himself was no danger to the men in that factory – he had stumbled upon one of the best forgery operations that I have seen for some considerable time. And in my line of business that is quite an accolade.”

“Indeed?” There came the looking down the nose again.

“Yes”, Holmes smiled. “A factory producing fake letters with pre-issue Penny Blacks. Thousands of the things. It is situated in Chagford Street.”

There. Definitely a flicker of alarm before the man regained his composure.

“Is it?” he asked dryly. “How very interesting.”

“Well, I should say that it is”, Holmes said, looking at his watch. “Although perhaps I may have to amend that soon to 'it was'. Naturally I passed on full details of this terrible example of lawbreaking to the resident station whence Sergeant Thornleigh will be mounting a raid on the place.”

“I rather think that you have been wasting my time, sir”, our guest said loftily. “I am leaving.”

He stood to go and turned to the door only to find me there holding my gun and pointing it straight at him. He went deathly pale. 

“The most interesting thing about that factory”, Holmes said, “was what I had confirmed about it only a few hours ago. Most incredibly, it is registered in the name of your cousin, the Duke of Norfolk and Postmaster General.”

“So?” our guest said, clearly eyeing up the possibility of a run for the door. I shook my head warningly at him and my finger tightened on the trigger. 

“A quick check of past copies of the _”Times”_ showed me that His Grace was out of the country on the day that those papers were signed”, Holmes said. “Now, I know that the reach of the law is long, but I do not think that your cousin's arms can stretch all the way from Paris to London.”

The man slumped back into his chair. There was a most timely knock at the door, and I opened it to reveal a huge burly policeman, a sergeant from his stripes.

“Hullo, Thornleigh”, Holmes said before turning back to our visitor. “As for you, sir, if it were not the case that I know you cousin to be ill at this time, I would have no compunction about throwing you in jail and 'losing', the key. But I happen to esteem him as a human being and for his sake, you are to be offered a way out.”

Holmes toyed with his own gun on the table. The man stared at him in horror.

“I thought of that too”, Holmes smiled, “but frankly I would not trust you with one. Sergeant Thornleigh here will escort you to your house. You will be granted a short time to collect your valuables – two armed policemen will remain with you at all times, so do not think of trying anything - and you will then be taken to the docks where the _“St. Lucia”_ is sailing for the Cape this evening. First however, you will sign this confession clearing Mr. Ptolemy Wilson and taking all the blame on yourself. I shall not produce it until after the duke's passing, as he should be spared the shame of being of the same stock as something like you!”

The man glared at him, but he knew that he was defeated. He staggered to the table and signed the document there without even bothering to read it, then lurched out of the door with the sergeant close behind. It was a marked contrast from his proud and disdainful entrance only moments before.

“Poor Duke Henry”, Holmes sighed. “He is one of the greatest philanthropists that this country has, and I greatly admire his work for his fellow Catholics. Evidently something rotten managed to get into the branch of the family tree that produced his cousin.”

“You could not have done anything else”, I said comfortingly. “Wilson will be so happy with his new post.”

“It is good to help those like him”, Holmes said. “I will make sure that the job comes with a house and that employment is found for his step-brothers too. It is strange, is it not? The duke has so much and the messenger so little and yet they are both truly good men, each doing what they can with what they have for the betterment of society. England is blest to have them both.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
